by Piers Platt
“I think so,” Falken said. He glanced down at his uniform. “I think I’m ready.”
“Let’s hope so,” Peshai said, eyeing him appraisingly. “One last thing: I can get you into Oz, but I can’t keep your presence there a secret indefinitely. The Justice Department sends an independent audit team out to the ship on a regular basis. They biometrically scan every inmate in our care as part of their inspection.”
“If they come while I’m in the system, we get nailed,” Falken said.
“Right,” Peshai agreed. “So we’re on the clock here. I’m going to have to pull you out before they come back.”
“When are they coming back?”
“It’s supposed to be random – they don’t tell me the schedule. The good news is they came last week. But to be safe, I’m only going to give you a week in the simulator, just in case.”
“One week,” Falken said. “Okay. Won’t the crew know I’m in there?”
“They’re my crew,” Peshai said. “You don’t have to worry about them. Come on.”
Chapter 9
Vina jogged past the front of the bookstore and then slowed her pace to a walk, putting her hands on her head as she cooled down from the run. She took several deep breaths as she walked along the sidewalk, and blew the sweat off the tip of her nose. Then she checked her pulse and run time on her wristpad.
My pace is way off, she thought, frowning. But I guess I barely exercised while I was on vacation. Unless you count a few terrified moments on Olympus.
She reached the next intersection in town, and turned around across from a small café, retracing her steps along the block until she was back at the family’s shop. The building’s brick façade held a pair of tall windows on either side of a large, wooden door. Above the door, a black sign with gold letters proclaimed: Rauno Korhonen, Antique Bookseller, along with a carved likeness of her grandfather. The door jingled gently as she pushed her way inside, and her mother, halfway up a ladder with a book in one gloved hand, turned to face her.
“Hi, Vina,” she said. “Good run?”
“Eh,” Vina said, waggling her hand in the air. “So-so. Where’s Grandpa?”
“At an estate sale,” Elize said. “Seeing if they have anything worth buying.”
“Need help with anything?” Vina asked.
“Not until you dry off,” Elize said, shaking her head. “I can’t have you dripping all over the books. Mind your elbow.”
“Oh, right,” Vina said, stepping away from the nearest table of books. “In that case I’m going to use the computer in the office for a bit.”
“Okay,” her mother agreed.
Vina wound her way through the tall bookshelves, toward the back of the store. Near the front door, most of the books were paperbacks and hardcovers, holdovers from the days when people preferred reading from physical books, but as she moved farther into the store, the much older, leather-bound tomes took over, many of them sitting under clear glass display cases. At the back of the store, Vina opened a door and stepped into the office, which held a chair and desk for a computer, and a number of tall metal filing cabinets.
What’s even in those cabinets? Vina wondered, tugging experimentally on one of the locked handles. We can’t actually be storing paper files in there, can we? I bet Grandpa just keeps them around for show.
She peeled her headphone cord from around her neck and laid it on the desk, then drank from one of the water bottles on her hip, before sitting down in the chair and booting up the computer. She checked her email first, but found nothing worth reading or replying to. Then her eye caught a photo on the desktop. It was a picture of her family, in a silver frame, a posed photo taken around the holidays, the year before her father had been sent away.
Vina studied her father’s smiling face.
Mom said she never would have guessed you were capable of murder, she thought. I was only a teenager, but … I never would have guessed, either.
Vina turned back to the computer and opened the newsnet application. She narrowed the search field down to local news in Lawson County, and the year she had been kidnapped. News of the kidnapping and her father’s arrest dominated the headlines for most of the year. She clicked on one of the results at random.
A video popped up, of a press conference. Vina recognized the steps of the town hall in the background. Her father stood in front of a podium festooned with microphones. In stark contrast to the smiling photo on the desk, he was unshaven, and Vina could see dark bags under his eyes.
“… so if anyone knows anything about what happened … please, call the hotline. We’re offering a reward,” Sef Weaver said, and his voice sounded thin and strained. “Please help me find my family.”
Sheriff Buckniel stepped forward then, and patted her father on the back. “Thank you, Sef. We have the hotline, and we’re also setting up a website for anonymous tips,” Buckniel said, taking his place at the podium. Vina watched as her father stepped back from the stage, standing next to her grandfather on the steps of the town hall.
“And again,” Buckniel continued, “there is a two hundred and fifty thousand dollar reward for any information that leads to their rescue. Questions? Yes – you.” The sheriff pointed toward the camera.
A female reporter spoke up. “There are reports that a large number of law enforcement personnel have begun searching McMurtry State Park, south of town,” she said. “Care to comment?”
Vina studied her father, but he seemed hardly to be paying attention to the press conference anymore, lost in his own thoughts. He certainly seems distraught, she thought. I never remember him looking like that when we were growing up.
She closed out of the video feed and ran a search query, which directed her to the website of the local sheriff’s office. There was a crime blotter – nothing nearly as newsworthy seemed to be happening these days – and a link to contact the office. Her cursor hovered over the Contact link for a moment, and then she noticed another link near the top of the page.
“Public Record Request” …? Can you do that?
Vina clicked on the link, and then entered information into the form that popped up. A link to her father’s case appeared a moment later.
I guess you can do that. Huh.
Vina clicked on the link, and a file downloaded to her computer. She hesitated for a moment, then opened the folder. A multitude of files appeared – she saw a photo album, something labeled Timeline, an evidence inventory sheet, and several files of notes from various officials, including the sheriff and the medical examiner. She decided to steer clear of the photos. Vina opened a new text document to one side, and then started with the first file in the Notes section.
* * *
“Afternoon,” Rauno Korhonen rumbled, stepping into the office’s door frame.
“Hi, Grandpa,” she said. “Is it afternoon already?” Vina glanced down at her wristpad, and realized that it was nearly one o’clock. Her stomach confirmed it by growling hungrily.
Rauno carefully set two books on a side table, next to his restoration equipment.
“You found something?” Vina asked.
“Two first-run Heinleins,” her grandfather confirmed, with a hint of pride.
“Signed?” Vina asked hopefully.
“Unfortunately not,” Rauno replied. “But they’re in excellent condition, only some minor repairs needed. I’m going to the café for lunch. Do you want anything?”
“Can you get me one of those pesto paninis they have?” Vina asked.
“Pesto panini,” Rauno said, nodding. “And a root beer float?”
Vina laughed. “I just went for a run this morning – don’t tempt me, Grandpa.”
“You used to beg me for root beer floats from the café,” he pointed out. “You and your brother would compete to see who could finish theirs first.”
Vina smiled at the memory. “And Enzo would always win, and get brain freeze in the process.”
“You always were the more sensible one
,” Rauno agreed. “No root beer float, then?”
“No, thanks, Grandpa.”
He turned to leave, but caught sight of the computer. “What’s all that? Catching up on work?”
“No,” Vina said. “It’s Dad’s case file, from the sheriff’s office. Did you know they let you just download this stuff, if the case is old enough?”
Rauno sighed. “You’re determined to turn those rocks over still, hm?” He shook his head. “It’s not going to bring him back, you know.”
“I know,” Vina said. … but Falken’s working on that.
Her grandfather shook his head, and then disappeared back into the store. Vina turned back to the computer, switching to her own notes document, and reading it from the top.
So … the evidence log answered the first big question I had. Sheriff Buckniel wasn’t just conveniently in the area, like Mom said. He found Dad at the crime scene because someone left an anonymous tip with the sheriff’s office. According to the dispatcher’s records, a message on their website said that a steer had gotten loose from one of the ranches, and it was wandering along the road, getting in the way of traffic. Which still feels … just a little too coincidental. And also, why would someone care about being anonymous when they reported that? Note to self: did they ever find the missing steer?
Vina drummed her fingers on the desk, then continued reading.
Next issue: it looks like the medical examiner and the sheriff didn’t have the exact same timeline. The medical examiner said the time of death was about an hour earlier than what the sheriff wrote down, after interviewing Dad. Why the discrepancy? How accurate are medical examiner’s time of death estimates?
Vina opened the next file in the Notes section. It turned out to be a memo requesting the release of the sheriff’s full case notes, from Buckniel. She was about to close it, but then frowned.
Wait a second … why is Buckniel requesting his own case notes?
She scrolled back to the top, and realized that the memo’s letterhead read From the Law Office of Tarpon Buckniel, Esq. – Public Defender.
Vina’s frown deepened. “Tarpon?” That’s not the sheriff. She opened a search box and put in tarpon buckniel. The first result was a seven-year-old obituary item.
… Tarpon Buckniel served as Lawson County’s public defender for nearly eighteen years. He is survived by his younger brother, Sheriff Paulson Buckniel.
Vina sat back in her chair. So the sheriff’s brother was my dad’s defense attorney. I know it’s a small town, but … wouldn’t that be a conflict of interest, somehow? The younger brother arrests my dad, and then older brother fails to keep him out of jail. Hmm.
Vina shook her head.
Add it to the list of questions I need answers to.
Chapter 10
Falken followed Peshai out of the changing room and down the corridor. He shivered involuntarily, but whether it was from the thin inmate’s uniform or nervous anticipation, he could not tell. Peshai led him to a wide hatch flanked by a pair of guards. Above the hatch, Falken saw a phrase stenciled into the frame: All truths are easy to understand once they are discovered; the point is to discover them. – Galileo Galilei.
A wry smile flickered across his lips. The sneaky bastards were planting clues all along, and I didn’t even notice.
“Last-minute addition here for you, gentlemen,” Peshai told the two guards, jerking his thumb at Falken. “Take him inside, please.”
The guards looked Falken over, and he felt a flash of fear, feeling certain that they would refuse and raise the alarm. Instead, the two men simply nodded.
“Yes, sir,” one said, his expression neutral. The guards took Falken by the elbows, guiding him smoothly into the dimly lit room. Inside, tiers of surly-looking inmates sat waiting, medical technicians hovering beside them, making final arrangements to their equipment. Falken’s guards buckled him into an empty seat, and a medical technician began hooking him up to a monitoring device. At the front of the room, Falken saw Peshai take his place facing the gathered inmates.
How many of these rooms are there on board …? Falken wondered. Weaver’s here, somewhere on this ship … maybe just a room or two away.
“My name is Captain Peshai. I’m the warden of this ship,” the warden began. “And for the time being at least, you are all in my care. The goal of the Corrections Department is to determine whether any of you are capable of reforming, and if you are, to give you the tools you need to avoid offending again. In other words, we aim to rehabilitate you – all of you. But the only person who can determine whether you get a second chance or not … is you. Your actions in the months and years ahead will decide that. We can’t do it for you.”
Falken saw the vidscreen behind Peshai turn on, and an animated version of the UNCS Sydney appeared in orbit over Earth. “In a few minutes, each of you will be sedated for a period of several months. During that time, this ship will transport you to the colony of New Australia.”
Falken flinched as the medical tech inserted a needle into his arms.
“Sorry,” the tech whispered.
Falken looked up again – the video showed cartoon inmates picking crops under the watchful gaze of surveillance drones. “Think of New Australia as a trial run for reintegration, for life as a free man again,” Peshai said. “You will be under observation at all times, but corrections officers only intervene when it is absolutely necessary. Join the community there, help your fellow prisoners, and in time, you may earn your parole.”
Everyone paying attention? Falken thought. ‘Cause he just told you how to get out of here.
Peshai looked up, surveying the room. For a brief instant, his eyes fell on Falken.
“Good luck,” the warden said. Then he pushed off the floor, and floated over to the exit.
Falken turned to see his medical tech push down the plunger on a syringe connected to his intravenous line.
“Hibernation drugs,” the tech explained. “Just let yourself relax and fall asleep. Don’t try to fight it.”
“I won’t,” Falken said, and closed his eyes.
* * *
“What the hell’s going on?”
Falken started awake. The room was dark, and he could hear wind whistling through the cracks in the walls.
Falken shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs from the hibernation drugs. His mouth was dry, but the fuzzy feeling in his head faded after a few deep breaths. He felt a sharp jerk, and then his seat seemed to sway beneath him.
There goes the parachute.
“Hello? Is anyone else awake?” one of the inmates across the room asked.
Falken let his eyes adjust to the dark – after a moment, he saw the man who had spoken fumbling with his seat harness.
“I’m getting the fuck out of here,” he said.
“I’d stay seated if I were you,” Falken told him, as the man climbed out of his chair.
“Oh yeah, big guy? Why’s that?” the man sneered.
The crate slammed into the ground, and the man tumbled to his hands and knees, cursing.
That’s why, Falken thought, calmly unbuckling his harness. He stood and turned to the wall behind his seat, and kicked hard at the wooden slats, methodically widening a hole large enough to fit through. Then he climbed out of the crate, pushing aside the silk of a parachute and straightening up. On the far side of the clearing, Falken saw a stand of spiral-shaped trees, their lower trunks smooth and white. In the distance, he heard the warbling cry of a female blue-ball.
He took a deep breath, and smiled despite himself.
Oz. Son of a bitch.
“Where the fuck are we?” an inmate asked, emerging from under the parachute.
“Landing zone four,” Falken said, without thinking.
“What?” the man asked, frowning. “What are you talking about, ‘landing zone’? Where’s the damn space elevator?”
About three miles that way, Falken thought. What’s left of it.
He turned slowly
in place, taking his bearings. Okay, the facility and ruined space elevator are that way … no sense going there. Weaver should be at the colony. But I want to check something else out, first.
Behind him, two more men emerged from inside the crate. Falken glanced back at them, then started in surprise.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me …
Auresh’s eyes narrowed as he recognized Falken. Beside him, Cadellium straightened up, frowning. Then he, too, recognized Falken.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Auresh asked.
Maintain the illusion, Falken told himself. “Got into some trouble back on Harrison’s after the trial,” Falken lied. “Why? What are you in for?”
Cadellium sneered at him. “You know damn well.”
Auresh put his hand on the older man’s arm. “That’s okay,” he said. “No sense starting trouble. At least not yet.”
Falken drew himself up to his full height and glared down at them. “If you think you want trouble with me, I’d think again.”
“You’re a big man, but even big men have to sleep sometimes,” Auresh told him.
“And there are two of us,” Cadellium added. “Sweet dreams.”
Two? Where’s Shep? Falken wondered. Ah, right: he was a repeat offender. He doesn’t get a second shot at Oz.
Falken was about to reply when he saw a group of inmates emerge from the trees, their uniforms faded and tattered from long years of use. They dragged a pair of crude wooden sleds behind them. This will be the scavenger team from the colony.
“Welcome to Oz!” the lead inmate called out. “You boys better come with us if you don’t want to end up with Archos and his crew.”
“Who’s Archos?” a new inmate asked, but Falken had already started toward the tree line.
“Hey!” the scavenger team leader called out. “That ain’t the way to the colony, big guy.”